She patted him, still keeping her eyes closed. “Poor Joe, in your New York topcoat.” A large, fluffy, white cat jumped up on the bed and wedged himself inflexibly between them, jacking up his rear and purring like a sewing machine. “This is Mushy,” Julie said. “Old slobby Musheroo. He started out to be Mouche, but it didn’t take. Did it, you fat fiend?” The cat kneaded her arm, but he eyed Farrell.

“You’ve never had a cat,” Farrell said. “I don’t remember you ever having pets at all.”

“Mushy isn’t really mine. He came with the house, sort of.” Her eyes opened a few inches from his own—neither brown nor quite black, but a questioning, elusive darkness that he associated with no one else. “Do you remember that I was counting?”

“What?” he said. “What counting?”

“In the car, writing on the window. One, two, three, four, like that. Remember?”

“No. I mean, I do now, because you tell me, but not really. Move that cat and come see me.”

Julie reached up suddenly and switched off the bed-lamp. Farrell’s retinas, long accustomed to hurry calls, did the best they could, filing away the high contrast of black hair slashing across a shoulder the color of weak tea, the small breast drawn almost flat by her movement, and the shadow of tendons in her armpit. He reached for her.

“Wait,” she said. “Listen, I have to tell you this in the dark. I was counting me. Counting my cycle. I was trying to figure if it would be safe for me to take you back to my room with me. You looked so bad.”

The white cat had fallen asleep, but he was still purring with each breath. There was no other sound in the room. Julie said, “It was a matter of a day, one way or the other. I remember that very clearly. You don’t remember anything?”

The lights of a car slid over the far wall and part of the ceiling of Farrell’s hotel room, making the bidet glow like a pearl and turning the half-empty suitcase at the foot of the bed into a raw grave. Beside him, across the snowdrift of the cat—Paris winters are dirty, the air gets sticky and old—Julie’s round, tumbly-soft Eskimo face came and went again, as Julie herself came and went up and down in the world; as he would learn to come and go lightly too, if he didn’t die, if he made it through this long, dirty winter. He said, “I was twenty-one years old, what did I know?”

For a moment he could not feel Julie’s breath on his face. Then she said, “I just told you that to show you that I did think about you, even that long ago.”

“That’s nice,” he said, “but I wish you hadn’t told me. I don’t remember a damn thing about the counting, or whatever, but I remember that winter. I think you could probably have changed the course of world history by taking me home with you. All that dumb misery would have had to go somewhere.”

“Aw,” she said. “Aw, poor topcoat.” She picked up the cat and poured him gently off the bed. “Well, come here right away,” she said. “This is for then. Officially. Old friend. Old something. This is for then.”

In the morning he woke in bed with a suit of armor. Actually it was chain mail, slumped empty next to him like the gleaming husk of some steel spider’s victim; but the great helm that shared his pillow dominated his waking completely. The helm looked like a large black wastebasket with the bottom reinforced by metal struts and with most of one side cut away and covered by a slotted steel plate, riveted in place. Farrell had his arm over it, and his nose pressed into the face plate—it was the cold, rough, painty smell that had awakened him. He blinked at the helm several times, rubbed his nose, then rolled onto one elbow, looking around for Julie.

She was standing in the doorway, dressed and laughing silently, fingers at her lips in one of the few echoes of classical Japanese manners that he had ever noticed in her. “I wanted to see what you’d do,” she gasped. “You were so sweet to it. Were you scared?”

Farrell sat up, feeling grumpy and ill-used. “Should see some of the artifacts I’ve waked up with, the last ten years.” He lifted a fold of the mail shirt, finding it surprisingly fluid for all its weight. “All right, I’ll say it. What the hell is this?”

Julie came and sat on the bed. She smelled of the shower and of sunlight, and there was still a fuzzy bloom of water on her hair. “Well, this is a hauberk and this is the camail, to guard your throat, and these are for your legs, the chauses. It’s a complete suit, except for the gauntlets and the arming coat, the padding. And the surcoat. Most people generally wear some kind of surcoat over their mail.”

“Nobody I know does,” he said. He thumped the helm, which responded softly in the tense, eager way that his lute did when he spoke to it. Julie said, “That’s not part of the suit. I made that one a long time ago. I just threw it in for effect.” She smiled as Farrell blinked from her to the helm and back. “I made the chain mail, too,” she said. “Guess what I used.”

“Feels like coathangers. What I want to know is why. I know you can do anything, but it seems like a limited field.” He fingered the silver-enameled links again; then peered at them more closely. “My God, these things are all welded shut. Did you do that?”

Julie nodded. “They aren’t coathangers, though.” She stood up, deftly taking the blankets with her. “Did anyone ever tell you that there’s no bottom to your navel? It just goes on forever, like a black hole or something. Come on and get dressed, I have to go to work.”

In the shower he guessed that she had cut springs apart to make the rings; over oranges and English muffins, she talked freely about interweaving them in a four-to-one pattern and about being taught to weld by a friend whose house she had decorated. But she would not say why she had made the armor, or for whom. “It’s a long story, I’ll tell you when we’ve got more time.” Farrell could tease nothing further out of her. He let it go, saying deliberately, “Doesn’t look nearly as much fun as throwing pots,” so that she could escape into her favorite subject of ceramics. He knew just enough about it to ask fairly intelligent questions; but he liked to watch her talk about her skills.

After breakfast he drove her up to the university, where she did medical and scientific illustrating. “Cross-sections of vertebrae, detail studies of adrenal glands. I like it. I’m good at it.” She had held the job for more than a year.

“You don’t paint anymore,” he said. “I’ll have to take my easel back.” He had made the easel for her five years ago, in Oberlin, the semester that she went back to school. Julie smiled slightly at her hands.

“I never painted,” she said. “I can’t paint. I can draw, so I do that.”

Farrell said, “Jewel, you can do anything. It’s made a difference in my life, knowing you can do anything.”

“No, I can’t!” she cried harshly. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t fool myself so much these days. Stop imagining me, God damn it, it’s time for that too.” Farrell heard her throat close down and her teeth click. She said nothing after that until he stopped the bus on campus, as close to her office as he could go. He opened the door for her and helped her down in a way that began as a chivalrous joke and ended with them standing in a soggy heap of paper plates and torn political posters with their hands on each other’s arms.

“What happens now?” he asked. “What are we now?”

Julie prodded his stomach thoughtfully. “Goodness,” she said. “When I think I might have gone my whole life without ever knowing about that navel.” She pulled his shirt down, tucking it in carefully. “I go out for lunch around noon,” she said.

“I’ll be job hunting. Meet you for dinner.”

“There’a a Moroccan restaurant up near the Waverly. We can have couscous. I introduced you to couscous, didn’t I?”

“In the Rue du Four. Do you know, we’ve never eaten in the same place twice?”